


As Soldiers on Opposing Sides

by roboticscreen



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 08:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20060695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticscreen/pseuds/roboticscreen
Summary: Ever since their capture by the Quintessons, Cyclonus and Ultra Magnus can't seem to keep their minds off each other. And then, finally, they meet again.





	As Soldiers on Opposing Sides

Magnus snorted. “We wouldn’t be in this situation at all—”

“If _ you _ had not captured us,” Cyclonus finished. Out of the corner of his optic, he saw the imposing mech shoot him a look. 

“I can finish my own thoughts, I don’t need you to do it for me.”

He wheeled around and locked gazes. “Maybe the thought was not yours to begin with, Ultra Magnus.”

The Autobot was on him in seconds, pushing him back against the wall with one massive hand wrapped securely around his wrist and the other flat against his chest to keep him in place. “Be careful what you say.”

Cyclonus felt his mouth fall slightly open and his glossa flicked out over his lip, not entirely of his own will. “Or what, Autobot? What can you do to me?”

Magnus pressed closer and shifted his grip, and Cyclonus felt his feet come away from the floor. A surge of charge danced up his struts; he was helplessly pinned to the wall, and the big mech had hardly tried at all. And then he was kissing him, deeply and hungrily, and easily nipping at his lips when they parted in a moan. Magnus released his wrist and before Cyclonus could really process what had happened, those broad hands were wrapped around his waist, squeezing and kneading at his plating. 

His hips bucked and collided loudly with the big mech’s plating as he roughly tugged him closer and when Cyclonus moaned again, louder this time, his glossa slipped inside. One hand slipped down to his aft and squeezed roughly and he felt his spike pressurize. He gasped and whined as Magnus palmed over his panels, forcefully keeping them shut. The big mech pulled back just enough to give him an appreciative once-over and went back to kissing him. He was getting rougher by the second but never to the point of pain, and Cyclonus was nearly crying with the desire to release his spike. Magnus kept rubbing at his panels until all he could think about was getting those massive hands around his spike.

One last nip sent him over the edge and with a harsh cry, Cyclonus overloaded, panels still shut. Transfluid bubbled up at the seams of his plating and began to drip down his thighs as his knees shook and his charge diminished. Magnus let out a heavy sigh, venting hot air over both of them, and it was then that Cyclonus realized that his weren’t the only fans running on high. With a groan and a faint hydraulic hiss, Magnus retracted his panels and onlined his spike.

Cyclonus heard a whimper of desire leave him and reached out to touch the impressive piece. It matched the rest of him; the top was the same blue as his helm and the underside alternated red and white stripes, interspersed with visible nodes and muted biolights. He sank to his knees in front of the mech and took the head of his spike into his mouth. Magnus groaned and his hand came to rest on the back of Cyclonus’s helm and tugged him forward. The jet sank down, bracing himself against the mech’s thigh as the spike nudged against his primary intake covers. 

“Good mech,” he growled out, voice low with lust and desire. “Look at you, so beautiful around my spike—”

He swallowed and edged the head of Magnus’s spike past his intake covers. The big mech shuddered and bit back something that wanted to be a curse. Emboldened by the response, the jet pushed forward until his lips were flush against Magnus’s plating and his throat constricted helplessly around the spike. 

Magnus groaned and adjusted his grip on his helm to gently thrust down his throat. Cyclonus took shaky hold of his own spike and began to stroke in the same rhythm as he clung to the mech’s thigh for support. His pace stuttered to a halt when Magnus’s spike twitched.

“Keep touching yourself,” the big mech instructed. “I want you to keep pleasuring yourself for me.”

He made what affirmative noise he could and ran his fingertips up the underside of his spike to catch almost painfully on each little ridge. A shudder seized him and made his plating rattle together.

Magnus’s spike twitched again and his grip on the mech’s helm weakened. “That’s it, you feel so good, so strong—”

He felt it before he tasted it and even with the uneven touches, he overloaded. Magnus let out a strangled yell.

Cyclonus woke with a jolt, panels open and fans roaring. A dream, that was all, a bit of recharge flux that meant nothing. He could fall back into recharge and forget all about it by the morning.

He shifted, and that was when he realized that he was uncomfortably wet. He slipped a hand down and found his valve exposed, outer coverings flushed and plump with the rush of energon. His paired nodes flickered between them, at full power and almost too sensitive to the touch. He rubbed idly over them, prompting a fresh flow of lubricant to rush out, soaking his fingers and adding to the dampness he’d created below himself. Cyclonus gave the upper of the two a hard pinch and began to coax it to stiffness. He dropped his helm back and offlined his optics as he hiked his leg up on the berth and crammed two fingers into himself. If he muted his sensors he could conjure up the sensation of broad hands on his hips grasping at his plating and pulling him in. 

He tugged at himself and rocked forward onto his hand, setting a rapid, brutal pace. The impression of those hands stayed with him, holding him steady as he thrust into himself. He worked himself over silently and he could almost taste the overload building. He wanted those hands on him again, rougher and rougher, kneading at his plating. He wanted to feel those vents against his chestplates, wanted to hear those stifled groans as he went down on the big mech. He wanted—and he gritted his denta against a rising moan at the mere thought—he wanted to service him as he continued servicing himself. His hips bucked up off the berth and he could almost imagine jerking them up against strong hands that would push him back into the berth and aid the big mech in sliding back into him. He wanted to feel Magnus pressing into him, wanted to be filled by him. Wanted to feel the mech over him and _ in _ him and his hips jerked again, more frantically this time. 

Cyclonus overloaded, hard. His back arched off the berth and he could feel the cables in his neck tense almost to breaking as he desperately held back a scream. The smell of ozone filled the room as charge arced off of him and crackled away from his array. He rode it as long as he could, until his fingers were twitching with overcharge and could hardly maintain pressure. His hips thudded back onto the berth and his hand fell away from his array. 

_ “Look at you, so beautiful…” _

The Autobot’s words rose unbidden and Cyclonus growled low in his throat, as though the audible sound would drive away the imagined one. He wasn’t some… some Autobot plaything, some pretty little Seeker who’d roll over at the first display of power and beg for it at the first bit of praise. He was a warrior in Galvatron’s army, and his spent array was _ not _ re-energizing at the thought of some Autobot rubbing him down in the aftermath of an overload!

He heaved himself up and over and pressed his face into the berth. Another groan escaped him at the thought of what that Autobot (he wouldn’t—_couldn’t—_allow himself to think the name) might say at the sight of him in this position. Would he find it appealing? Would he force him to turn back over so he could see his face?

Angrily, he raked his fingers through his valve coverings, ignoring how easily those fingers slid home. He settled on his nodes and felt the building flickers of charge zipping between them. He set up a comfortable figure eight around his nodes, each pass nudging one node against the other and passing charge between them. He pinched the upper node none-too-gently, rolled it between his fingers, and flicked a third finger over the lower node. A low groan escaped him; he could all too easily imagine that Autobot seizing his hips and dragging them back against his spike. His thumbs wouldn’t quite meet in the middle of his back, but he doubted there’d be much distance between them. The Autobot would nudge the head of his spike against his valve before thrusting into him and filling him to the hilt. His valve, pliant as it was, would have no choice but to stretch around that massive spike, and each ripple of his calipers would pull that spike a little further in, hitting new sensors with each tug. With one final push, Ult—_the Autobot—_would bottom out in his valve, and he’d be able to feel the head of his spike pressing against his ceiling node. The Autobot would adjust his grip, maybe pausing to stroke teasingly over the plating still keeping his spike firmly in its housing, and pull back just enough to thrust into him again, plowing into him with enough force to press his face further into the berth. He’d bite at his lip to muffle a groan and the Autobot would chuckle—

His spike twitched as his array pinged him, requesting a release for the tightening plating covering it. He allowed it and his spike extended under him. It was already producing lubricant, and as he paused to watch, a drop beaded up and dripped onto the berth covers below him. He gnawed at his lip, fighting off thoughts of the Autobot gripping his spike and starting to stroke him in time with the thrusts into his valve.

Cyclonus abandoned his valve and desperately took hold of his spike, tugging at it in short, sharp bursts. He was already close; he could feel himself hovering on the edge of another overload.

_ “Keep touching yourself… I want you to keep pleasuring yourself for me.” _

He wasn’t able to muffle the cry that escaped him this time as he tipped over the edge with a final, desperate jerk. He could imagine that Autobot yanking his hips backwards and overloading deep inside him, keeping him pinned there until his charge flickered away and his spike softened. And all too easily he could imagine sliding himself off that spike, feeling a brief sting of emptiness in his valve, before he turned and bent to clean the piece, lapping their combined fluids off of it. He remembered the feel of it down his throat and his nodes twitched weakly. Such an… _ imposing _ mech would certainly have the equipment to match, and he wanted to feel that ache in his jaw as he struggled to reach the bottom of it. 

Cyclonus groaned. His array had overcharged itself and he was spent. He let himself drop back onto the berth, unmindful of the spilled fluids below him. He gritted his denta as his spike slid back into its housing and tiny amounts of charge zipped between it and the fluids. If this mess was the result of a fantasized encounter between him and that Autobot, he could only imagine how intense the real thing might be.

======

“The next time we meet, it will be as enemies.”

“Yes, as soldiers on opposing sides.”

“No more, no less.”

Ultra Magnus shook his head, trying to drive his thoughts away from the purple Decepticon jet. What had he been thinking, with that “no more, no less?” It wasn’t as though he needed convincing!

He redirected himself to the infrastructure report on his monitor. Rodimus had requested his follow-up by the end of the day, which was certainly doable, but he’d been having trouble staying on-task since his latest run-in with Cyclonus. There was something almost magnetic about him; the harder he tried to distract himself, the more he seemed unable to do so. Thoughts about the jet taunted him, dancing around the edges of his awareness at the most inconvenient of times. It was starting to feel like something out of one of Springer’s trashy romance novels, which he’d always dismissed as fanciful exaggerations of actually experienced emotions. Now he was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t something to that after all, but he certainly didn’t intend to ask Springer about it. 

A quiet noise of irritation left him. Once again he’d allowed the jet to distract him. Apparently, he needed convincing after all. He pushed back from his desk. Since it was obvious he wouldn’t be getting anything done like this, he figured he might as well take a short break, follow this annoying line of thought to its conclusion, and then finally get back to his report. 

Part of him wondered what it might be like to have Cyclonus on their side, to see him serve as an ally rather than a Decepticon warrior. There was no doubt he’d make a fine addition to their forces; his loyalty and his prowess in battle were remarkable, and Magnus had to admit he was impressed, despite the ends to which Cyclonus used that prowess. But their capture by the Quintessons had proven that at least the two of them could work together. They were both soldiers, after all. 

Magnus sighed. He was sure Cyclonus wasn’t considering these things. No doubt he’d already completely moved on from their latest encounter, the way Magnus should have done as soon as they’d parted. And yet… something about him kept pulling him back in, again and again. He was fascinated by him, there was no other way to put it. He was an impressive mech—not the most physically imposing, but there was still a presence to him, a presence that commanded respect. He’d proven himself to be calm and level-headed in battle, and he would have made a far better leader than Galvatron, who seemed to become more and more unhinged with each fight. Where the deranged cannon would wildly fire off shot after shot, Cyclonus remained focused, and despite the damage caused, Magnus could still respect the skill behind it. He considered himself a skilled soldier, but the jet made it look like an art form. 

He shifted uncomfortably. Something felt off, and it took him a long moment to realize that for some time, as his thoughts fixed solely on Cyclonus, his spike had been pressing firmly against his modesty plating, and the realization did nothing to change that. The knowledge that this was a ridiculous situation was similarly useless. But... there could be little harm in indulging himself, just this one time, and it would certainly have him back to work sooner than the alternative, trying to ignore the way his spike twitched at the very thought of Cyclonus. As long as he didn’t allow this to become a habit, he would be fine.

Ultra Magnus triple-checked that the door was locked from the desk terminal and leaned back in his chair. Almost reluctantly, he let his panels recede. His spike immediately extended from its housing, seemingly unaffected by the length of his deliberations. This was merely a fantasy, he reminded himself as his fingers found his spike. This was to be a one-time occurrence; he would indulge it solely because of its persistence and not because it had any real place in his normal thoughts. He would indulge the fantasy once and then he would never think about it again, and it would certainly not affect the way he would approach Cyclonus the next time they met. 

Certainly not…

All too easily he could imagine pinning the jet—carefully, of course; he wouldn’t risk actually damaging those wings—against the nearest convenient wall. Such a respected—enemy, he reminded himself, an enemy—shouldn’t be hurt during something like this. He could imagine the look on Cyclonus’s face, the way he’d scowl and sneer before giving in to what they both wanted. He could imagine the jet pulling him down—and it would be a pull; Cyclonus was the more forceful, more willful of the two of them—could imagine kissing him as the fight raged on around them. Before long the kissing would turn deeper, more intimate, but then one of them would pull away, weakly protesting that this was behavior unbecoming a high-ranking officer, not that either of them cared anymore. Cyclonus might sink down, or perhaps Magnus would even push him, and he could _ easily _ imagine those clawed fingers tripping over the seams of his modesty plating, trying to find their way inside. His spike twitched in his grip at the thought of the jet mechhandling his panels open, though it wouldn’t take much handling at all. Cyclonus seemed like the kind of mech to lock optics with his partner, maybe as a little show of power, or maybe just to show off, that he didn’t even need to look where his hands were to know he was having his intended effect. Either way, Magnus certainly liked the idea.

He could imagine Cyclonus trailing his glossa up the underside of his spike and his fingertips followed the same path. The jet might give him a little smirk when he reached the tip before pushing himself up and taking the length of his spike in his mouth. His hips twitched at the thought. It would be all too easy to lose himself in the moment, and he would try to guide the pace to prolong it as much as possible, but Cyclonus would be more direct about it. He would seize Ultra Magnus’s hips when he tried to pull back to slow the pace and tug him back in, no doubt following the movement through and pressing his spike further down his throat. In the end it would be all Magnus could do to brace himself on the wall behind the jet and watch him work, watch the cables under his forearm plating flex every time he pulled him in, watch for a glimpse of his throat constricting around his spike as he teased his glossa along its underside, and above all, watch his optics as they bore back into his, constant though hazy with their combined pleasure.

He would bite back a gasp as he neared overload, quicker than he would have liked, but the longer they dallied, the greater the risk of getting caught, and that was a risk neither of them could afford to take. The thought sent a frisson of fear—tinged with more than a little charge—through his struts to coil low in his tanks. He would do his best to warn Cyclonus, though he doubted he would have been able to manage more than a few coherent words. The jet would understand and with a slightly more determined look in his optics, he’d surge forward until his lips were pressed flush against his spike housing. He’d make a last noise low in his throat and that subtle vibration would be enough to send Magnus over the edge into overload. 

Magnus’s fingers stilled on his spike at the sound of footsteps approaching his office and he nearly groaned out loud. He was maddeningly close to an actual overload, not just an imagined one, but the prospect of the door codes being overridden and someone catching him in the act was humiliating enough for him to get his charge somewhat under control and he forced his spike back into his housing and manually closed his plating over it. It was uncomfortably tight and almost unbearably warm, and his spike felt like it was throbbing with need where it pressed against its housing and panels. He shifted, feeling a guilty pang of pleasure shoot through him at the adjusted pleasure, tried not to let his thoughts stray _ too _far to Cyclonus’s mouth back on his closed panels, and unlocked the door, just as Rodimus knocked and strode in without waiting for an invitation.

A pained, subvocal whine slipped out, despite Magnus’s best efforts. This was going to be a long, charged, and unpleasant unplanned meeting.

======

Cyclonus had hoped that time would bring with it an end to his preoccupation with Ultra Magnus, but he was sorely mistaken. While he was mercifully spared further dreams that were as intense as the first one he’d experienced, he was still plagued by thoughts of the Autobot, and many of them had him longing for the privacy and solace of the berthroom. The distractions kept him in an irritatingly common state of charge, and though his general demeanor kept most from inquiring, he knew his distraction would soon become apparent to all unless he found a way to stop it, and quickly. 

Which was why he’d insisted that he be the one to lead the next raid against the Autobots—after Galvatron, of course. Ultra Magnus was sure to be there, and there was no better way to prove to himself once and for all that the Autobot had been nothing more than a fleeting fancy—and certainly nothing to be this distracted by—than by defeating him in combat. 

The closer their ship drew to the Autobot base, the more excitement—or was it charge?—ran along his struts, infecting him with an almost nervous energy. His fingers darted over his weapons as they began their descent and checked them for the umpteenth time. Everything had been cleaned and primed far in advance, and as the ship touched down after what felt like an eternity, he transformed and shot out. The Autobot base rose up in front of him as they approached, taunting him. 

Just before the Decepticon forces hit the main doors, they burst open and the Autobots rushed out to meet them, led by Ultra Magnus himself. Cyclonus nearly halted in midair and covered the motion by dropping back into his root mode and continuing the charge on foot. He didn’t need the advantage of flight to prove himself superior to the Autobot!

“Magnus is mine!” he roared as the two forces met. No one seemed to hear him over the din of battle.

Cyclonus pushed his way through the mass of mechs until he found Ultra Magnus and again he hesitated. The imposing mech was a sight to behold and he seemed to regard the Decepticon attack as a mere inconvenience rather than something to truly worry about. Perhap Magnus would find him more of a challenge. The jet charged at him with a wild yell. The Autobot turned and he saw his optics widen right before he hit him. 

Ultra Magnus caught him easily and held him off. “You won’t win this fight, Decepticon!”

The jet snarled. “Then try harder.”

The Autobot pushed him back again and Cyclonus felt his footing weaken. He shifted his grip and yanked the big mech down after him. Time seemed to slow as they fell. Ultra Magnus jerked his hands free and caught himself at the last possible second, bracing himself with his forearms above Cyclonus’s helm and his knees on either side of the jet’s waist. 

Everything in Cyclonus’s warrior’s coding screamed that now was the time to attack. They were both in awkward, vulnerable positions, but the opportunity couldn’t be ignored. Unfortunately, it wasn’t being ignored by his array. He opened his mouth to threaten the Autobot.

“Kiss me,” he demanded instead.

Magnus blinked and pulled back, though he remained propped where he was. “What?” 

The words he’d spoken caught up to him and he growled. “You have been infecting my thoughts since the Quintessons captured us both. I do not know what you did to me, but—”

The big mech made an unusual noise deep in his throat. “Is that why you seemed so distracted?”

Another growl and Cyclonus yanked him down and kissed him angrily. He felt Ultra Magnus shudder and pull back.

“We shouldn’t.”

The jet glared up at him. “But you want to.”

Magnus hesitated. “Yes.”

“Then kiss me.”

He adjusted himself over Cyclonus and leaned back in. It was a terrible idea and they both knew it. They would both be executed, or at the very least exiled, if anyone caught them. And then his mouth was on the jet’s and neither of them cared much about anything beyond the next moment, the next taste. 

Cyclonus groaned and his hand slipped up to settle on the back of Magnus’s shoulder and pull him in. He wanted to feel the big mech pressing down on him and tried to communicate that with short tugs on his kibble. Magnus shifted his weight to one forearm and slid one hand down to his hip, kneading and gripping at his plating. A filthy moan left the jet. 

“Like that?” Magnus managed.

He nodded, feeling the back of his helm tap against the dirt. “Please—” he started. Immediately his face warmed. How degrading, to beg for something from an Autobot—! “I want to feel you.”

He jerked his hips up as he spoke and successfully dislodged Magnus’s hand. It slid further in, coming to a rest by his modesty plating, which was already warming. The big mech ran a careful thumb over those panels.

“Harder,” Cyclonus growled. 

Ultra Magnus leaned into the next pass, but it still wasn’t enough.

“I said, _ harder!” _

The next rub nearly shifted him across the ground and Cyclonus could tell the big mech was finally putting some force behind his strokes. His engines hitched and his fans sputtered to life as he pulled Ultra Magnus down for another kiss, this one even fiercer than before. Magnus leaned into it and nipped back when the jet’s dentae snagged on his lip.

Cyclonus’s panels audibly snapped open and when Ultra Magnus adjusted his hand, his thumb sank into his valve coverings. He almost swore as he pulled back in surprise and Cyclonus went soft-strutted under him. 

“Is this what you want?” he murmured against his jaw.

Cyclonus vented slowly. “Yes.”

He heard Magnus’s panels retract and suddenly the mech was in him, spike still pressurizing as he set a steady rhythm. He moaned, high and needy, and one hand scrabbled over Magnus’s backplates, desperately trying to drag him closer, but the big mech held himself back. Cyclonus snarled in irritation and grabbed for his hips; at the same time he yanked him in, he pressed his own hips down. In one jerky movement, his spike slid home and Cyclonus swore he saw stars. The Autobot’s spike was actually bigger than he’d imagined and it stretched him almost to the point of pain. He cried out as the mech began to move again and tugged him in just as firmly when he made to stop. 

“You _ will _ keep going,” he muttered. 

Magnus let out another muted curse. “Feels good…”

Cyclonus wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly, but when the words registered he felt his valve clench down, calipers rippling weakly around the massive piece. 

The big mech groaned. “Cyclonus, I—”

“Then do it.”

With a final yank from Cyclonus, he overloaded hard, and the jet followed. The combined release of charge nearly knocked him offline, and they laid tangled together for a moment, heavy and lazy in the aftermath. Magnus collapsed, still partially on top of him, gently stroking over his chestplates and murmuring half-processed compliments that were more sweet noise than anything else. Carefully he slid his softening spike out and back into its housing and made to rise.

Cyclonus wanted to stop him, wanted him to fill the ache in his valve again and again and again, _ would _have stopped him, had it not been for his commander’s cry of retreat. He regretfully rolled Ultra Magnus off of him and slid his panels shut before he pushed himself up and started to follow his fellow Decepticons.

He paused and glanced back to Magnus, still on the ground. The big mech nodded, and with no spoken words they both understood that what they had shared might one day be repeated. With that, he finally left.

If either side’s leader noticed the suspiciously placed paint transfers on their seconds-in-command, they said nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact, this took me several months to write, and for all several of those months the doc was titled "magclonus killing jar FUCK" and I'm not even sure that's the name of the episode I got some of the dialogue from. So uh, enjoy that fact, I guess.


End file.
